27 4
by SuperKateB
Summary: A day in the life of Boston Medical Examiners Bug and Nigel. (Warning: BugNigel pairing.)


**"24/7"  
A Crossing Jordan Fanfiction  
In the "Strange Bedfellows" Continuity  
Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler**

o-o-o-o-o

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Yawning, Nigel Townsend rolled over in bed and, with a grunt of effort, pulled the thick down comforter over his head.

"Oh, just turn it off," grumbled the warm mass of man at his side, tugging at the blankets. Icy toes poked Nigel in the shin. "I got it yesterday."

"It's your alarm," Nigel protested over the drone, pushing the cold foot away from his once-warm skin. An arm fell over his side, caressing his bare stomach.

"So? I still got it yesterday."

"It was your alarm then, too." The lanky man burrowed himself further in his pillow, wondering silently it how a pillow in Bug's bed had become "his" in the first place.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!

Bug simply grunted at the snarky comment. The embrace grew tighter, and in his haze between sleep and coherence, Nigel felt a chest, stomach,  
and other parts ress against his back and arse. "Just turn it off," grumbled the Indian man numbly.

"Make me."

The hand splayed across his stomach drifted, and suddenly, Nigel found himself more than amply awake. "Oh, Mahesh, I never knew you!" he purred, his hand hovering over the alarm button.

"You won't know me at all if you don't turn off that alarm." He could hear the amusement in Bug's sleepy, muddled, cotton-mouthed voice.

The alarm BEEP!ed for the last time and then was silent, Nigel rolling over in bed to greet the morning breath of his favorite bed-Bug.

Yes, another morning in the life of a Boston medical examiner had begun.

o-o-o-o-o

The café that huddled on the corner directly across from the Boston Morgue was a greasy, cheap hole-in-the-wall, stinking of overcooked bacon and twenty-five-cent mugs of oily coffee.

Bug watched over the top of his newspaper with a slight half-smile as his companion poked curiously at the grapefruit rind on his plate with a flimsy white spork. His eyes darted from side to side as he briefly surveyed the table and selected the salt shaker from the condiment basket.

The newspaper sagged. "What in the world are you doing?"

Nigel shrugged, upturning the salt and sprinkling a good tablespoon or two of the white powder into his empty rind. "Experimenting," he decided. He swirled the spork around, mixing the substance with the remaining grapefruit juice.

"Unnecessary, if you ask me."

"You didn't seem to think so two nights ago, pet."

The Indian man wrinkled his nose in mild annoyance and returned to his reading, saying nothing despite the smart smirk crossing his lips.

Thirty seconds later, however, both he and the rest of the diner found their attention returned to the shaggy haired Brit as he, sputtering,  
announced, "That tastes like fuck!"

A few patrons chuckled before turning back to their breakfasts as Bug lowered the newspaper a second time. "What happened?" he questioned as the other man dragged his tongue across a napkin, sputtering.

"Salt and grapefruit tastes horrible together!" he pointed out, dropping the napkin and reaching for his coffee. He downed half the mug before his better half could blink. "Absolutely horrible!"

"You actually ate that?" Bug's expression redefined the word incredulous. Nigel reached across the table towards Bug's glass of water, but he grabbed him by the wrist, stopping the hand. "What ever possessed you to think that salt and grapefruit together would be edible?"

Nigel struggled against the hand on his wrist, fingers flexing and unflexing. His lover slid the glass further away. "It looked like sugar," he protested, scowling as he reached for the glass. "Tasted like fuck, but looked like sugar!"

Sighing, Bug relinquished his water with a shake of his head. "You are such a child, sometimes," he decided, sipping his tea.

A knee brushed his under the table, settling there. "Like you would have it any other way."

o-o-o-o-o

"What have you got for me, Nige?"

Bug lowered the pen from his mouth as he watched Jordan lean low over the body Nigel was currently up to his elbows in, peering at various organs and tissues.

"Well, love, it seems that our dear friend's heart and liver were twice the size they should have been," the Brit explained languidly, gesturing towards the chest cavity of the corpse. "An impressive accomplishment, considering."

A dark, slender eyebrow arched as Jordan pulled her head up. From his vintage point, Bug wondered how she kept her long curls from falling into the open torso before her. "Considering?"

Bright white teeth flashed as Nigel shed his gloves and wandered over to the printer, pulling a series of print-outs from it. "There's the rub," he explained, thrusting the papers into her hands. "I did some tests, and it turns out that his heart and liver would have had to be that big for several years."

Now, both of Jordan's eyebrows hovered to ridiculous heights. "Years?" she repeated, incredulous. "Is that even possible?"

"According to the tests, evidently." He reached again for the printer, producing another few slender sheets of paper. "But then, I googled the phenomenon - "

"As you would." Bug rolled his eyes from across the room; Jordan always laid it on unnecessarily thick when she needed a favor.

" - and discovered the coup de grace: there is a five percent margin of error when running tissue age tests." He winked playfully. "So I ran the tests again - "

He handed her yet another few printer documents.

" - and discovered that the inflammation was recent." He gestured to the chest cavity a second time. "And, as it happens, it was also the cause of death."

Jordan rolled her eyes, dumping the first two sets of printouts into the nearest garbage can. "Thanks, Nige, for your invaluable help," she chuckled, patting his arm before meandering out of the autopsy room.

Bowing his head back over the two ticks they'd pulled off the body, Bug shook his head. "Smarmy bastard," he snorted to himself, voice hardly above a mutter.

Equally bowed over the corpse, re-gloved hands deep in soft tissue, Nigel smirked from across the room. "I heard that."

o-o-o-o-o

"Thank you, Wonder Boy, but I have absolutely no need for your help."

"Oh, the infallible Doctor Bug can't deal with a little volunteerism from his coworkers and must slay his own dragons, shield and sword be damned?"

The duo of medical examiners hovered just to the left of Nigel's desk, unaware of the lanky man's attention as Sydney, hands stretched out, stared expectantly up at the elder doctor, obviously waiting for something.

Bug readjusted his armful of files. "I can handle my own cases," he returned coolly, his brow furrowing at his ever-helpful coworker. "Besides, I would think that your long day of ass-kissing isn't quite finished yet."

Sydney visibly recoiled. Nigel smirked from his seat and cupped his chin in a hand. "Touché," the younger man replied, throwing up his hands. "I'll leave you to your business then."

The smirk on Bug's face was undeniable as his rival turned on his heel and rushed down the hallway, hands buried in his pockets. He glanced down at the man watching him and immediately dropped his victorious grin; he'd not realized, until now, that Nigel had seen the entire interaction, start to finish.

"Don't even say it," he warned, crossing behind the bug-display partition and towards his own desk.

Nigel brushed his fingers against Bug's free hand as he slid past. "You mean, I'm supposed to resist mentioning the fact that I've officially become a bad influence on you, 'Doctor Bug'?"

"Oh, shut up."

o-o-o-o-o

"When Dr. Macy returns from lunch, he's going to kill you."

The bass line boomed loudly as Nigel, wearing sunglasses to protect him from the dim fluorescent lighting of the morgue foyer, moved the ballpoint pen from just beyond his lips and stared blankly at Bug. Dressed in his scrubs, on the way from the locker room to Autopsy 1, the short ME had his hands on his hips and was shaking his head.

"What?" asked the lankier Brit with a waggle of his pelvis, moon-walking the distance between himself and his better half. "Do you not hear the call of Mister Mellencamp's 'Wild Nights'?"

A well-timed eye roll initiated the reply. "I hear the call of a fifty-three-year-old heart attack victim, thank you," he sighed. The guitar riff on the radio scratched in his ears, excessively loud. "I also hear the call of the hellfire you will bring down when Macy, Jordan, and Lily all return from lunch and find you dancing around rather than working."

"Oh, all work and no play makes Bug a dull boy!" Nigel challenged, grabbing his companion by the hands. The resistance was evident, but his significant height advantage sent the Indian man stumbling into his arms. "Tango with me, Mahesh."

"No, thank you."

"Please."

"No!"

"You know you - "

"Well, isn't this charming?" Both men disengaged and whirled around just in time to see the elevator doors close behind a narrow-eyed Macy,  
smirking Jordan, and giggle-stifling Lily. Bug immediately cast his gaze upon the floor tiles, whilst Nigel simply flicked his sunglasses atop his head. "Unless you're both researching a 'dance of death,' I'd suggest you both get back to work." His gaze focused in on Nigel, whose lips were curved into a deliciously devious smile. "Preferably now."

"Idiot," muttered Bug as he turned to leave.

Nigel simply smirked. "Always."

o-o-o-o-o

"Buuug..."

Most of the morgue was silent, sans that night's graveyard shift and the familiar, scratchy sound of a distant phonograph in Garret's office, as Nigel leaned over Bug's shoulder and peered at his computer monitor.

"Buuuuuuuuug..."

"Let me finish this." The smaller man's voice was nonplussed as he maneuvered the mouse over a button and clicked it hastily. The poorly-  
rendered graphic of a horse head slid across the virtual chessboard, capturing the other player's pawn.

Sighing, Nigel wrapped his arms around his lover's shoulders. "But I'm hungry and tired and you can play at home," he whined, his tone light. The moments when the morgue emptied and left them alone were some of his favorites, public but still secret, quiet and tender, forbidden, unnoticed trysts. Still, gentle touches did not abate hunger, and as he rested his chin atop the head of soft, dark hair, his stomach rumbled. "Let's just go. Forfeit and we'll get out of here."

"I'm not going to forfeit." The other man's tone seemed wrought with the scandal of the mere suggestion. "That's admitting defeat."

"Only to hunger, pet."

"And your whining." The smirk on Bug's face was distinct as he moved the mouse again, and a bishop slid halfway across the board.

"Buggles..."

"No."

"But - "

"No."

"But I'm hu - "

"No."

"...please?"

An electronic beep sounded as the game shut off, and within seconds, the monitor was black.

The sigh that followed was a heavy one. "I'm such a pushover."

Nigel landed a brief kiss in his dark hair. "Perhaps, my dear, but that's just the way I like 'em - stuffy, British, and easy."

o-o-o-o-o

"Italian?"

"Nah, not in the mood for all that tomato."

"Thai?"

"Too spicy."

"Some greasy, disgusting fast-food garbage patty attempting to masquerade itself as meat?"

"...well, one would have been tempting had you not chosen that particular way of describing it."

Nigel leaned heavily on his elbows over the phone book, his brow furrowed in deep consideration as he flipped a page. Stretched out on the couch, Bug focused on the latest addition to his entomology collection, responding to all his companion's comments without ever looking up,  
except when glancing at his steaming cup of murky tea on the nearby coffee table.

"Then what, prey tell, do you suggest we have for supper?" The couch sagged as his partner joined him, sitting unceremoniously upon his sock-covered feet. He dog-eared the corner of the page and set his book aside. "I've listed every decent genre of cuisine available in the better part of the city, and you've rebuked every one." His stomach growled, gurgling ominously. "And in case you may have forgotten despite my many protestings: I'm hungry."

Bug snorted. "Most of the subway overheard that particular complaint as well," he pointed out, wriggling his toes. A wicked grin crossed Nigel's face as he did. "Mexican could be good," he suggested after a companionable pause, enjoying the feel of Nigel's fingers walking up and down his shin bone idly.

Brown eyes remained on the phone book. "Cheap Mexican, decent Mexican, or Mexican the likes of which even Garret Macy himself could not afford?"

"Any of the above, provided there's the option of black beans and salsa," replied his companion, retrieving his book once again.

Nigel made a face. "If you're having black beans, I'm sleeping at home," he complained, digging in his pocket for his mobile phone.

A smirk touched Bug's lips as he resumed his reading. "More covers for me, then."

o-o-o-o-o

"Amazing," sighed Nigel airily as he curled himself around Bug's damp, warm form, their legs entangled enough in each other and the sheets that he wondered how either of them would ever again manage to escape. "Absolutely amazing." He smirked slightly, listening to the idle beating of his lover's still-racing heart. "Have you been practicing without my knowledge, Buggles?"

He swore he could hear the familiar eye roll. "Yes, every night," came the necessarily snide remark, though the lightness to his tone betrayed any real annoyance that either could have been present.

"I figured. Macy?"

"No, Detective Hoyt."

"Mmm, don't tell Jordan."

"Indeed."

The familiar silence after a hard day's work washed over them, broken only occasionally by the prerequisite interruptions that came with living in a large city. Sirens wailed in the distance, and each man could feel the other's muscles tighten as they waited for the buzzing of one of their cellular phones against the nightstand. Their waiting was met solely by silence.

"It's going to be six-thirty soon enough," Bug pointed out sleepily, shifting his position to spoon with the taller, thinner man, his cheek resting against a pale arm. "Sleep is good."

"You know, we can get to work at nine by getting up at eight-fifteen." The murmur was soft and muddled with sleep.

"We could. Or we could not sleep at all, and still make it to work."

A hand drifted to caress his upper thigh. "Is that an offer?"

"No."

Nigel chuckled and withdrew his lecherous hand, wrapping it instead around his lover's waist. "Until tomorrow, then," he whispered, moving just far enough to land a short kiss on the fuzzy temple. "Sweet dreams."

Bug's hand fell from his own hip, fingers interlacing with the hand around his waist. "Goodnight, Nigel."

"Goodnight, pet."

**Fin**.

Standard Disclaimer: Crossing Jordan and related characters belong to NBC and not myself.

Author's notes: I've been reading too much drabble, and decided I needed to write a little drabble-esque fic with lots of short chunks and no real plot. Actually, this really came to pass because Cassie decided to combine salt with grapefruit as part of her dinner, and I found it too hilarious to NOT write into a fic. So, if she's Nigel, I guess that makes me Bug. Let's not ponder that any further, shall we?

"Strange Bedfellows" is a continuity of my own creation in which Bug and Nigel are a full-fledged couple. If you like the pairing and want to read more, try:

"Outside, Looking In"  
"Possible Impossibilities"  
"A Taste of Lime"

Comments and reviews always welcome.

February 18, 2005  
11:58 p.m.


End file.
